


(the birdsong) (the distant sky)

by jonphaedrus



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: I CANT BELIEVE I WILLINGLY WROTE THIS, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5441999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonphaedrus/pseuds/jonphaedrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love, they say, will set you free.</p><p>It is only a matter of interpretation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(the birdsong) (the distant sky)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rethira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rethira/gifts).



> rethi is a really bad person and essentially asked me to write "every possible outcome of this" and i did it, because i hate myself, and given the opportunity to crush the remains of my soul into sad dust i will happily destroy my own heart :')

_i -- ...phiran, i will wait for you in the afterlife..._

When Sanaki says “Sephiran, Zelgius is dead...” the Sage’s fair features crease in near-pain, his eyes tighten at the corners. There is anguish in his expression, and he presses one hand to his chest, as if he can hold his bloody heart within its caged confines by the strength of his fingers alone.

Of course.

Of course Zelgius is dead, because that is how this was meant to end. _Was it quick_ , he wants to ask, _was it kind_ , or _did he suffer_. He does not ask it, the words bottling up against the back of his teeth and dying like fizzled-out candles, burning their flames against the roof of his mouth.

Of course it was quick. Ike is nothing if not efficient. Of course it was not kind, for Zelgius would not give in easily, would fight until his body was falling apart, made of decay. 

Of course he suffered, for Zelgius had never done anything less than suffer in Sephiran’s name.

What is there left for Sephiran now, but to smile like there is blood boiling between his teeth and gums, to ignore the tears that burn at the corners of his eyes (what is _happiness_ he has never known it, he has only known the pain of two thousand years gone and Altina has been lost to him as long as he can remember and now Zelgius, Zelgius too, and both of them by his own choice, he has brought this anguish down upon his own head) and place himself willingly on the block to slaughter, neck stuck out, whispering as he shifts his hair aside for the blessed relief of the blade the _whoosh_ the _swing_ the grisly _chunk_ of the flesh finally cleaved in two.

How fitting, Sephiran thinks, when Ike thrusts Ragnell through his chest, crushing his ribs, pulverising his lungs, choking his throat and splitting his spine. How fitting that the death he tried to give himself, that the death he _begged_ for for so long, could only be granted by the blade wielded by Altina and Zelgius. Here at last, to take him home. 

Love, they say, will set you free.

It is only a matter of interpretation.

 

_ii – i’ll be waiting for you, lehran_

“Kill me!” Sephiran cries out, crouched in the dirt in Serenes, after they leave the tower, after they cleave the medallion, after they drag him away from Zelgius’ body, his screams cracking, his voice breaking, pleading desperately no, no, please no, please not this. His shoulders shake, his broken black wings trailing feathers on the ground as his fingers curl into the ashy soil, his strong voice an endless, broken wail. “Kill me! I can’t do this, please, please, kill me!” Like Ike could make the choice now, to drive his blade through the man’s skull and give him his rest, when he has already come so far from the killing field upon which he was meant to die.

Ike wonders if it might have been better if they had, instead of watching Reyson and Leanne drag him away, Lehran’s tears staining the ground wet like the rain, Lehran's throat gone hoarse with screaming for something, anything, for death for darkness but _not this_. Instead of leaving him to this—this _penance_ , if that is what it is.

How long, Ike wonders, must Lehran live alone, the sins of all their forefathers resting squarely on his shoulders? Altina, Soan, and Dheginsea are gone now. They have been granted rest, a reprieve from the sins they passed on to their sons and daughters.

Only Lehran remains.

Only Lehran, and the goddess, and their grief.

 

_iii -- zel...gius...is waiting. ...al...ti...na..._

They return, the medallion no longer holding a goddess cracked in twain, and find Zelgius crouched over Sephiran’s motionless body, broad hands holding the chancellor’s broken form like he is precious beyond reckoning, blood smearing his fingers.

He cries, great, horrific wailing noises, like his soul is fit to fall out of his mouth, his blue hair matted near-black with blood, and how he has survived this long is impossible, but he lives still, watches Ike with eyes blue as the drowning sea and soulless, empty to boot.

“You should have killed me,” Zelgius whispers, blood staining the back of his teeth. “You have spared me nothing.”

Ike cannot, will not, raise his blade again to kill another. Not now, when all is done.

He walks away, the Black Knight’s pained, bloodstained laughter burning the back of his neck, none of his companions able to bring themselves to stare at him.

Except Sanaki, who returns and holds into Zelgius tightly, buries her small face in his hair while he stains her clothes even redder with Sephiran’s blood, and they wail together, two lost boats in a storm, grief subsuming, overwhelming, capsizing them.

The next time anyone sees Zelgius, he is beside the Empress, his blue eyes pressed into his face with fingerprint bruises, his mouth pinched, his shoulders weak and slumped even under his fine red armour.

She holds his hand, and he tries not to cry, a great gaping hole scooped out of his soul where Sephiran should be.

 

 _iv_ – _at lorazieh’s urging, sephiran lay himself down within serenes, and was healed by the song of the herons_

They say, he lives deep in the woods. They say, he’s lived a thousand years, a thousand more. They say, he’s lived forever.

Those who know the truth are now few and far between, the years and generations once again slowly stealing it all from him in one final breath at a time, one shake, shudder, closed eyes, breakdown.

The girl stumbles into the clearing one day, and stares around her with great blue eyes wide as the sky, at the old house, the wood petrified more than decayed, the stone altar it stands beside, the plinth upon waits a single medallion, glowing quietly with its own inner light. She desperately wants to touch it, and her small feet, wings trailing along the ground in the dirt behind her, carry her closer.

“No, little one,” says the soft voice, and she looks up. He is old, so old, but he looks young, so young. Hardly older than she is, a voice in her head says. “You mustn’t. She’s still sleeping, and it would be impolite to wake her.” He takes her hand and leads her away, his long black wings making her stare.

“Did you get ink on them?” She asks, and he laughs, although it is brittle-sounding, like cracked glass.

“No.” He leads her to the edge of a clearing, and she sees a grave, a great sword overgrown with moss glinting in the light, wants to stop and look, but can’t. “Black wings mean bad luck.”

He lets her hand go, and she stares at him.

He is very sad. She can feel it.

“You shouldn’t be sad,” she tells him, and a soft smile touches his lips, does not reach his eyes. “Mama says being sad all the time is bad for you.” 

“I’ll do my best,” he tells her, a touch too gentle. “But I will admit, I have never been particularly good at much of anything else.” 

He leaves, and she watches him return to the altar, passing the grave and trailing his fingers over the hilt of the old sword, just the same way her mother touches her hair, his fingers full of gentle love and sorrow, and then he is gone, returned to the altar, vanished.

She watches until she can hear her mother singing for her, and then she turns, runs, leaps, and spirals into the air, her voice raised joyfully as she returns home.


End file.
